


Scrapped Together From A Junkyard

by PompousPickle



Series: Almost Boyfriends [3]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: And also high on drugs, Emotionally Challenged Boyfriends, John is a pissy cat, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PompousPickle/pseuds/PompousPickle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is injured and recovery in a hospital. Dorian is a little shit. Feelings ensue. John/Dorian implied. Lots of angst and feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrapped Together From A Junkyard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the tumblr prompt of John recovering from an injury and Dorian taking care of him. I might write a little more of this later, with Dorian actually taking care of John.

“I don’t know why they call it laughing gas,” John said from the hospital bed, snorting back a giggle. “I didn’t laugh at all. It’s not even funny.” But despite his apparent attitude, John couldn’t stop sputtering out laughter, much to his dismay.

Dorian didn’t say anything. He only stood by the bed as John reached for the water that a nurse had left. “Shit,” the detective hissed out, clutching the wound in his hip before laying back down and barking out another laugh. “Make yourself useful and get me that.”

“I pulled you away from the five men who were trying to kill you. I think I’ve exceeded my usefulness quota for the day,” Dorian replied flatly as he handed his partner the cup.

John drank with as much grace as he could muster under the effects of the drugs. Water spilled uselessly across his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Dorian could only assume some of it actually made it into his mouth. “That isn’t how I remember it.”

“And how’s that? You saved me and now _I’m_ the one recovering from fatal wounds in a hospital?”

“Pretty sure the worst of it was in my leg.” John coughed and nodded downwards towards his charred stub of a leg. The doctors removed the prosthetic.

“What leg?”

“Exactly. So it worked out. Plus that means I don’t have to worry about that damned synthetic strapped up to me for a while.” John grinned at Dorian, as though he had made some sort of victory in being wounded so badly. “Not you. The synthetic leg. I don’t mind having you strapped to me. Even if you’re a pain in my ass most the time.”

“You’re high,” Dorian then noted, a bit obviously. Though he had to admit, he liked seeing John like this. Even drunk or exhausted, John was still difficult and stubborn. Now, he was open and honest. And vulnerable. It provided ample time to mess around with the man.

“Not high enough,” John then decided, feeling his side and hissing in pain. “Get me better drugs. And a better-looking bedside nurse, while you’re at it.”

“I’m not your bedside nurse.” Dorian said, throwing a tiny ball of paper at John, causing him to jump and swat at the distraction like a cat. Dorian couldn’t help but smile as he did it again, causing John to just look at him, still like a cat. But more like a disgruntled cat.

“Yeah? And what are you going to be doing while I recover the next few days?” John asked, swatting at more balls of paper as Dorian flicked them his way. He grabbed a few of them and started tossing them back.

“Probably making sure you don’t do anything stupid.” Dorian sat back in a chair and stretched back. “Also, you’re being optimistic if you think you’ll only be home-bound for the next few days. My diagnostics read that-”

“See? Bedside nurse. Diagnostics and…watching me,” John said, his voice descending into a bit of a grumble. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Good night, my friend.” Dorian finally said, watching John fumble uselessly with the blankets before moving to help lay him down. His movement was too restricted at the moment with the various tubes and bandages. John struggled away from the help, burying his fists into Dorian’s shirt before realizing that the DRN was just trying to help.

“Thanks man,” John then mumbled, the drugs still making his voice slur a little. “Get me better drugs.” He added, blinking slowly. Dorian couldn’t help but notice the look in his eyes as he removed his hands from Dorian. His breath was short, his shoulders tense, and his eyes were just ever-so-slightly furrowed.

He was scared.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, even though the doctors had already told John that a thousand times. John already knew. They both already knew.

But it wasn’t that. John knew he was going to be okay. He knew he was going to wake up, angry at himself for getting hurt and angry at the world around him for being so messed up. He knew he was going to wake up, healed but still damaged. Always broken and feeling like he was scraped together from a junkyard. What he didn’t know was if anyone would care when he was there.  

“You’ll be here?” He finally asked, knowing he could easily blame his vulnerability on the drugs, if it ever came up again. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

And Dorian understood. Immediately. John never talked about Anna, about how she disappeared after the coma. About how that left him in pieces. But word got around enough. In an instant, he slipped his hand into John’s open palm, giving it a hard squeeze. And John didn’t squeeze back, still too stubborn to admit that he needed this. But they both knew. Dorian nodded and they both knew. “Good night John. I’ll see you in the morning. Promise.”

 


End file.
